


Sitting in a Tree

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Fake It 'til the Wedding Bells [3]
Category: Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Communication Failure, Frank Castle Angst, M/M, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21539152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank has no idea how to initiate an emotionally mature discussion about feelings.
Relationships: Frank Castle/David "Micro" Lieberman
Series: Fake It 'til the Wedding Bells [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1473551
Comments: 13
Kudos: 23





	Sitting in a Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/gifts).



Frank has low expectations for his own capacity for emotional maturity. He’s never been the ‘talk it out’ sort, doesn’t find the prospect of getting in touch with his feelings to be particularly attractive -- or wise -- and he _really_ doesn’t see the appeal in talking about his _issues_. 

He’s dealing with his issues just fine, night by night. Round by round. Dirtbag by gunned-down, bled-out dirtbag.

It’s Lieberman he had high expectations of.

He thought things would change, after Four Seasons, after falling asleep with Lieberman’s arm around him, pleasantly sore and fucked out. It hadn’t been _much_ of a talk, but it had been _some_ of a talk, and Frank liked the way that had felt, talking like that, being held, falling asleep together. 

When they'd woken up, Lieberman had ordered room service and then he'd sucked Frank off while they waited for the food. There was something about Lieberman on his knees, looking up at him and telling him to be quick, 'like a good boy', because he wouldn't stop until Frank finished no matter who came to the door. 

He'd wanted Lieberman to fuck him again, but he wouldn't. Lieberman was worried about hurting him, said he didn't want Frank to regret anything later. So he kissed him and sucked his dick like it was his life's purpose instead, and he'd fed him breakfast; he'd kept him in that room, barely let him out of bed, until a quarter to noon, right before they had to check out. 

Lieberman had spoiled him for a day, but then, if Frank let himself really think about things honestly, Lieberman spoiled him most of the time, just not so... decadently. There was something about how Lieberman went about caring for Frank that always felt indulgent; having him in a real bed, having him so fully in control of every beat the evening took, it had swept Frank’s feet out from under him. He couldn't find purchase, he could only be swept along in the dance.

It had left him pleasantly dizzy, made him feel... handled, secure. 

The entire setup had been weird. It took Frank a while to mull the events over, but he's pretty sure none of it was actually work, not even the bit at the restaurant, Lieberman getting handsy at the table. He'd said it was an attempt to lure the two geeks Frank had lost at De Rossi's bar, but Frank was pretty sure that was just... smoke.

Lieberman had wanted to do something, and he either wanted an excuse to paper over his want, or he'd thought Frank wouldn't agree straight out to going out like that without the excuse.

Would he have? Frank doesn't have an answer for that, though he asks himself plenty, mulls it over like there's something important to be found in knowing one way or the other. 

He hadn't expected he'd like it, when Lieberman laid the game plan out. There was nothing inherently appealing to him about being dressed in clothes that were criminally expensive and going for dinner at a place where an appetizer cost more than Frank was comfortable paying for an entire meal. Asked to do it alone, he'd grit his teeth and get through the evening, but he didn't think he'd enjoy it.

Doing all that on Lieberman's arm, from the position of being his smitten bodyguard, his empty-headed arm candy, that had... that had been something. The knowing look from the waiter while Lieberman had a hand on Frank's thigh, just shy of feeling him up right there at the table, being surrounded by a bunch of oblivious rich assholes while Lieberman took complete control of the night -- he hadn't even needed to order his own food. Lieberman had made that entire night exactly what he'd wanted, and Frank had been swept along with it.

He'd _liked_ that. 

It always felt good, letting Lieberman be in charge. Frank didn't trust a lot of folks, but he trusted Lieberman implicitly, with just about everything. Lieberman took care of him, even when they argued, and he always seemed to have Frank's best interest in mind. That got annoying when his 'best interest' meant trying to keep him from doing what needed to be done, and it was terrifying at times because they'd managed to get themselves so entangled Frank wasn't sure they could cut each other loose anymore, not without hurting one another. 

Frank had resisted acknowledging that, all the implications of it. It was hard to look at dead on, because dead on the situation was miserably obvious. 

He loves Lieberman.

There was no better way to hurt someone, to really break someone, than to love them wrong. Frank was very good at hurting people, intentionally and unintentionally. People he cared about had a tendency to get hurt bad, and people he loved had a tendency to die. 

Lieberman is the last person in the world he wants to see hurt. Frank has, in point of fact, put a great deal of effort into making himself just the right kind of asshole to keep Lieberman from leaving but retain some kind of distance between them as well. If he didn't let them get close, neither would be hurt quite so badly in the end. 

It's hard, keeping distance. Lieberman put so much work into taking care of him, working around Frank's endless bullshit to make sure he had what he needed to conduct the war he'd chosen to dedicate his life to. Lieberman is possibly the only person in the world who understands that Frank can't just stop, that he can't quit, that without the war, he might as well be dead. Instead of looking at Frank and seeing a violent obsessive, Lieberman saw something worth his effort.

Having that revelation in a ritzy hotel shower, washing up for what he hoped was going to be a world-class fuck, had been less overwhelming than he would have imagined. It was like remembering a word that had been on the tip of his tongue for a while; it felt good to find, satisfying, but he'd already known somewhere in his head.

Now it was in the forefront. He was in love with Lieberman. 

He _is_ in love with Lieberman. 

He can't imagine not being in love with Lieberman.

Coming to that conclusion, Frank expects that things moving forward will change. Given the obvious effort put into the evening -- date? Had Lieberman taken him on a date? -- Frank imagines Lieberman _wants_ things to change. 

So when things don't seem to change much at all in the following days, weeks, Frank is surprised at the relief he _doesn't_ feel. He knows he should be relieved; they don't need to make this thing between them any more complicated than it already is. He should latch on to the return to normal, everything as usual, and leave the fantasies for jacking off. 

Except the things he was thinking would change weren't really the sort of things you jack off to. He'd thought maybe they'd talk more about things other than the job, war and what Frank needed to fight it. He thought Lieberman would want to try sleeping together more often, not because they were both too fucked out to get out of the bed but just because it was nice to be on the same schedule as the guy you spent your free time with.

He'd thought Lieberman would tease him more. Put on that imperious, knowing mask of unshakable authority and tell Frank what to do. Like he had when he told him to how much those stupid too-tight jeans cost, or like when he ordered their food, not even glancing at Frank to see if he agreed with his selection. 

He expected things to change, and when they don't, it's bizarre how disappointed he is. 

It's a new situation for him. He's never been disappointed by an anticipated routine change falling through before, especially one where he's got no clue how to put things back on track. He likes routines, likes knowing how he’s expected to respond to things. Expecting the nature of their entire relationship to change and then having it _not_ and finding himself wishing it _had_ was extremely bizarre.

The stupidest thing is, he doesn't really even know what it is he wanted to have happen. A number of little things, yeah sure, but there's something... there's something hanging between them, something that could be sore and rotten, or could be sweet and sustaining, but is more than likely some fucked up mix of both, and Frank thinks that thing needs to be cut open and cleaned out if this whole construct isn't going to blow up in their faces. 

They need to talk, is the disgustingly soft conclusion Frank comes to, but he hasn't got a clue how to start that. He's not even sure he wants to; as appealing as reaching for that vague concept of ‘more’ is, he’s afraid of what actually reaching it means. Talking about whatever it is they need to have out is liable to put marks on the relative peace between them. Lieberman has weathered so many storms with shockingly good grace, with calm and intelligence and more understanding than Frank rightly deserves most of the time. If Frank stirs up shit trying to force a 'therapeutic' venting session, all that good grace might fucking vanish, mightn't it? 

Certainly Frank wouldn't blame Lieberman deciding to get the hell out of Dodge. Frank's war is Frank's war, and while he welcomes the support and the help with any number of things he'd never be able to get done correctly on his own, he doesn't expect anyone’s assistance to ever be a long-term thing. Because no one sticks around who isn't a friend and Frank doesn't make friends. 

Lieberman could get hurt.

Hell, they both could get hurt. It'll hurt if Frank fucks up and Lieberman just leaves. And if Frank's wrong about Lieberman's motives for the fancy dinner and Four Seasons schtick, Lieberman very well might leave. Maybe Lieberman just felt like playing a game and Frank’s reading his own bullshit into it. They've got a good thing going, Frank mucking it up with a bunch of soft, unnecessary feelings is just a complication anyone would be in their rights to want away from. 

That particular circuitous argument carries Frank through a couple weeks, giving him something to focus on instead of the ways Lieberman shuts him out and does his own thing. They both have walls up all the time, and it's easier to see that in someone other that one's self, a wicked mirror reflecting poison. 

Lieberman always leads in the bedroom, and he doesn't exactly duck his head and agree to everything Frank says the rest of the time. Lieberman could tell Frank to do just about anything, and taking ability and situation into account, Frank would do it. The truth of the matter is, Frank likes listening to Lieberman, he likes the way it feels to let someone so smart and capable and patient have their finger on his trigger. Lieberman is the only person Frank would trust to aim him like a weapon and tell him who to shoot.

There’s two words that have been stuck in Frank’s head since Lieberman spoke them that night, when Frank asked if that first mention of ‘spoiling’ him had been part of their act. He’s wanted clarification, having a difficult time figuring out what angle it was Lieberman was playing, if they were already supposed to be acting for some reason. That’s the only option that made even a little sense, because Frank couldn’t imagine Lieberman actually _meaning_ it, that he wanted to spend money on Frank, treat him special. 

“You mean for the act,” Frank had asked, thinking about the characters they were playing, the bodyguard willing to kill for his employer, expecting Lieberman to laugh in his face for needing that clarified.

Except Linus had smiled that inscrutable, frustrating grin he’d been using as he ingratiated himself with De Rossi’s fan club in the bar, and he’d returned the question with his own, and he’d asked his reply blandly, “Do I?”

"Do I?" 

It shifted the framework of the entire evening, "Do I?" 

Did he?

It wasn't easy to say. Lieberman didn't usually have trouble saying what he wanted. Frank was generally the one who needed to worry about how things could be justified. But Lieberman often anticipated his needs and made an effort to accommodate him, even when whatever he was hung up on was obviously senseless or frustrating to Lieberman. 

In that case though, there was a possibility -- the likeliness of it being the truth shifts around in Frank's mind every time he thinks about it, varying with his mood -- that if Lieberman wanted something he thought Frank would shut down even if Frank actually wanted it too, he might come up with some excuse to make it sound like part of a job, something they _had_ to do.

And if he was willing to put in the effort to not just surprise Frank -- and seeing him in that suit again had been a surprise, a nice one, given that he'd assumed the suit would vanish forever like so many other no longer needed accessories -- but come up with a fully plausible excuse for them to go out and have that kind of special evening… If he was willing to put in all that work, then wasn't it possible that Lieberman cared about Frank too?

It seemed like a lot of effort just to fuck him. By now Lieberman had to know that Frank would give it up for him just about any time he asked. He'd do anything Lieberman wanted, and still wouldn't blame Lieberman if he went out looking for an easier lay. 

Lieberman deserved someone who treated him well, and given the fact that Frank was going to wind up gunned down and anyone who got close to him was liable to wind up similarly dead, Frank was never going to be that guy. He was too selfish to cut ties on his own, but he wasn't delusional enough to pretend he could ever be what anyone wanted in a steady, long-term partner. 

Romantic partner.

Three weeks after Four Seasons, everything is the same, like nothing ever happened. Knowing they need to talk and actually being able to start the conversation are two very different things, but putting it off makes Frank feel squirrely. It feels dishonest to have Lieberman on his knees, sucking him off fast and sloppy, totally in control even then, and be too goddamn tongue-tied stupid after to try and bring up something as complicated and dangerously indulgent as emotions.

Bringing it up outside the context of sex feels -- no. Too damn much, that would be too strange, wouldn't it? Coming out of the blue, Lieberman would probably think Frank had taken too many hits to the head. Frank didn't exactly have a history of talking about that kind of unnecessary stuff. 

Never been the 'talk it out' sort, after all.

He tries, over those weeks, doing small things. Change things on his own. He brings Lieberman things he knows he likes, frivolous things that he has to go out of his way to find. Pastries from a bakery Lieberman mentioned favouring. Take out from the Indian place Lieberman had been said looked good but never bought food from because the line was always outrageous and they had better things to do than wait an hour for food. Things that seemed pointless but meant something just because they reminded Frank of Lieberman and he knew Lieberman would enjoy.

But nothing changes. Lieberman takes the gifts, surprised and pleased and, in the case of the Indian food, outright shocked, but he doesn't say anything other than 'thanks'. He doesn't look at Frank the way he'd looked at him that night, like there was no one else in the world he'd rather be with. Like Frank was his ideal, like having him out on his arm was the best thing imaginable, except maybe for the prospect of having him alone on his knees. 

Three weeks and a day, Frank comes back from a long surveillance job on some idiots hawking stolen weapons tech, and Lieberman is waiting up for him, smiles when Frank walks in, and Frank doesn't even think about it; he kisses him in passing, on his way to grab a shower he sorely needs. It's not something they do, not outside a moment that's going to immediately head into sex, and he can feel Lieberman freeze up at the shock of it even as he's walking away.

Frank tries not to think too hard about that, or about the tension it puts in him, the stress of potentially unreciprocated emotion. He doesn't want to think about it, it's nothing that bears worrying about; Lieberman _not_ being so caught up in Frank's bullshit that he's thinking about dangerous, pointless things like _love_ is actually the better option, isn't it? Better that one of them should be clear headed in this, better that one of them is smart enough to know better. 

The place they're using as a base has an actual door to the bathroom, but no lock on that door, a non-issue that's never troubled Frank at all until, as he steps into the shower, the door pushes open and Lieberman lets himself in, sitting on the toilet and watching Frank, expression carefully bland. 

"You need somethin'?" Frank asks, and turns half away to let the water -- good pressure, but barely above warm -- sluice over his face, rinse away the first layer of grime. It has the added benefit of putting his back on display to Lieberman, all the faded scratches from the last time Frank had fucked him into the bed and Lieberman had scraped his nails down Frank's shoulders. Less than a week ago, that, and immediately afterward Lieberman had rolled out of bed and hadn't come back until Frank was waking up the next day. 

Because it's not sentimental. It was never supposed to be, and Frank knows he's being an idiot for trying to find... find _romance_ here. 

An idiot, but a helpless one; he can't make himself stop, and the soft, considering sound Lieberman makes when Frank twists away from him makes him feel the kind of swooping pleasure he feels when Lieberman gives him any other compliment. 

"Just making sure you don't fall and crack your head," Lieberman says, and Frank doesn't exactly understand what that's supposed to mean until Lieberman adds, "Unless you already took a couple blows to the head. You're acting a little weird."

It stings a little, and Frank's not sure what part stings the worst -- that it should be so entirely out of character for Frank to show a little affection to the man he trusts more than anyone else, or that Lieberman should want that affection so little that he immediately writes it off as evidence of a head injury. 

Frank knows he's not the guy anyone expects softness from. He never was, and whatever part of him used to manage it has largely atrophied. He's too used to looking for danger, for deceit, for a trap, to easily fall into gentleness or sweetness. 

He also thought Linus knew him well enough to understand that, if anyone was ever going to see that softer part of Frank again, it would be him. 

"I'm fine," He says, grabbing a rag and scrubbing himself down. The water never gets hot enough here to fog up the glass doors of the shower stall, so Lieberman is only distorted by the imperfections of the glass and the water beaded on it when Frank looks back at him. He's just sitting there, looking at his hands laced between his knees, not even watching Frank, and Frank doesn't know exactly what the feeling that’s sinking into his chest is, but he knows it's unpleasant. "No injuries. You got nothing to worry about."

There’s nothing in the room to dull the whine of the shower head or the dull susurration of water against the tile, sounds that mean nothing and make the rest of the silence seem loud. In that yawning silence, there’s a moment, Linus looking up from his hands and watching Frank, that feels weighted, the barest distortion of Lieberman’s face accenting the crease of his brow and the directness of his stare. He looks at Frank for a moment, frowning, fingers clasped tight now, and Frank waits for him to say something. 

Anything.

For there to be something here, something to this moment other than Lieberman so disturbed by the simplest hint of affection that he jumped to the conclusion of Frank having been injured.

The moment passes, Lieberman looking away, head ducked as he shakes it. He sits there on the lid of the toilet, head bowed, for just a moment longer before he hums a sound, giving the impression that whether Frank's injured or not, he's got plenty of things to worry about, and then pushes to his feet. "I'll take your word for it," he says, and leaves.

Weird, the way dumb shit like that can hurt, dull sort of pain that rockets around, lighting up Frank's head and chest and gut. It shouldn't hurt, it should mean nothing. They were never supposed to care about each other, not really. People Frank decides to care about always get hurt, so it would be kinder if Frank could just repress this crush bullshit until it stops being something that matters.

That's what he should do, aching heart be damned. If he really gives a shit about Linus, if he really loves him, the smart thing would be to distance himself so the chances of Linus dying or getting hurt worse than he already has are lessened. 

Frank's pushed himself through a lot of pain in his life. This isn't even a real injury; pushing past this and doing the smart thing should be easy.

He can't though. He knows that before he even finishes up in the shower; he can't just walk from this. Loving Lieberman feels so good and so right in a way that Frank's never felt before, and that makes the 'smart thing' feel so cruel and pointless that he just... can't.

They need to talk. Put it plain, have it out like adults. If Linus hears him and tells him he's not interested in his affection, doesn't want anything more than a physical relationship -- maybe doesn't even want that anymore, after finding out Frank's trying to make it complicated like this -- Frank can deal with that. But the chance that he could be wrong, that maybe he's not picking up the right signals at the right times... the chance, slim and desperate as it likely is, that this is mutual, means that Frank can't just keep trying to swallow his tongue every time they end up in bed together.

Initiating an emotionally mature conversation is not a thing Frank has much practice with, or any real knowledge on how to do. It's so far out of his wheelhouse, he's not sure he even knows where to begin planning for such a discussion. 

He just knows his chest hurts, aches with the perceived dismissal of his affection, and the hurt makes him prickly. Talking when he feels like this is likely to turn into an argument, and as productive as arguments can sometimes be with Lieberman, this is probably not a topic about which he should pick a fight.

But then again, picking a fight has worked in the past. It might actually be the wiser option, the way of drawing Lieberman into the conversation without needing to flay himself open emotionally right from the start.

Standing there in the bathroom, scrubbing the water off himself with a towel that’s getting dangerously thin, Frank's eyes keep drifting back to the sink, to the old mug set by the faucet. At some point in their moving around, the mug had gotten chipped pretty badly, and Lieberman had decided, rather than tossing it, that it would be perfect for the job of holding their toothbrushes. 

And it's -- it's _meaningless,_ is the thing; like the bathroom door having no lock, it's a nonissue. It's always been a nonissue, something that didn't require a second thought. They both need to brush their teeth and there's nothing inherently intimate about two toothbrushes set together in a chipped old mug. 

But there sort of is, actually. A sort of intimacy, that is; the intimacy of something personal of theirs stored in the open together, casual and normalized. Their toothbrushes could be stored with their other personal shit, stuffed in their bags or whatever; they could be set on the dingy counter, maybe one to either side of the sink so there was no confusion. 

They're not though. They're leaning against one another in one of Micro's old mugs with the Ford logo splashed across it. 

It's not intimate, really. It's just practical. 

Except in so many little, subtle ways, it _is_ intimate. Some kind of intimacy, certainly, in that kind of comfort and ease found together between them. It's intimate, isn't it, in a way, to have something so mundane become shared. Just brushing their teeth part of a grander way that they're all wrapped up in each other all the time.

It's _domestic_ , Frank settles on as he's dragging his clothes back on. Every argument, every shared meal, every day of downtime spent doing nothing much at all together; that's all _domestic_. They've gotten so comfortable with each other that they've found a way to get domestic together, and that's got to mean something.

Unless it doesn't.

Frank hates this shit. He's not good at it, and it frustrates him, because he can never fully know all the variables he's working with. He's never going to know exactly why Lieberman feels this way or says that thing, and he's never perfectly going to be able to do the 'right' thing by him, however much he wants to. He doesn't like getting frustrated about pointless shit, frustration too easy to turn into a default of anger. Anger without a purpose is useless, the kind of shit that leads to making mistakes, but what else has he got anymore?

The thing is, he _tries_. It's not worth much, his effort, but he does _try_ to steer himself away from being a blatant asshole. He's got years of practice in swallowing his anger and learning to repurpose it, and he's gotten himself to let go of things before that Lieberman was clearly in the wrong about. Honestly, he's also desperate not to burn this particular bridge. He doesn't want to do anything that leaves them with nothing to build back from. All he wants is... clarification. 

He just wants to know where they stand.

But when he walks out of the bathroom and back to the main room, Lieberman is sitting back at his big work table, bent over the same project he'd been playing with when Frank had first gotten back. He's hunched over the table, face close to the table, a brilliant work light angled so that he can lean in without fulling locking the light from where he needs it. He's engrossed, the same as he'd been engrossed when Frank got back, except this time he doesn't even bother to offer Frank a look or a smile, and something about that _hurts_.

It hurts like Lieberman following him into the bathroom and then breezing right back out when Frank answered his questions satisfyingly enough to prove he wasn't concussed. Frank's walking around with barbed wire spooled all through his guts and Lieberman is humming as he screws some tiny computer component into some other computer part, calm as anything. Bored, even.

It hurts, and just like that implication that he'd only show easy, off-handed affection if he'd sustained a serious head injury, it makes something in Frank's chest spark up, makes it hard to keep breathing evenly. This time, instead of that pain diffusing quickly into an ignorable ache around his heart, the pain flares up bright, straight into the kind of dug-in agony that feeds off the smallest irritation to become rage.

"You get the brake pads done on the van yet," Frank asks, moving past where Lieberman is tinkering to get a pot of coffee started. "I wanna make a move on Cavannaugh's crew tonight. _Before_ they get their mitts on more black market shit." 

Lieberman makes an infuriating little tsking sound, like Frank's being funny. "Cavannaugh's not picking up for another week yet. I know you know that. I'll get to the brakes tomorrow, you've been out for days and --"

The slam of Frank’s palms against the counter top cuts Lieberman off, and when Frank turns around, Lieberman is twisted around in his chair, staring at him. The thrill Frank feels at that is ugly, twisted up wrong with his anger, but at least Lieberman is actually looking at him now. 

“When did we start doing things by committee?" Frank snarls, deliberately shitty words, words meant to sting. "I want the van ready for a job. Tonight."

"You just got back!" Lieberman has at this point turned fully in his chair, the very first shadows of anger appearing in the draw of his brow, the creases at the corners of his mouth. Frank hates that he knows Lieberman so we'll, hates that he knows exactly what to look for. "Frank, you've been out there for three days already. I know you weren't eating, probably not sleeping, and if you did either, you didn't --"

"Are you my fucking coach all the sudden? Jesus Christ, Lieberman, I said fix the fuckin' van."

Lieberman looks stricken for all of a second, blink and you'd miss it, except Frank knows that face better than he knows his own anymore, and he doesn't miss a thing. The furrow dug between those brows and the hardening of those eyes is a mask Lieberman puts on; the anger is mostly put on still. Frank wants to cut deeper, take the hurt in his own heart and make it Lieberman's. It's a terrible, ugly thing, he thinks, to love someone and want to hurt them the way he wants to hurt Lieberman. 

He watches as Lieberman gets to his feet, watches the colour rise in his face as he tries to check himself, tries to moderate his irritation and make himself look stern and unaffected. "Frank, I have no idea what the fuck your problem is, but you _need_ to rest before you go out there and get yourself killed."

Pissed off enough, hurting bad enough, it often feels like the filters between Frank's thoughts and Frank's mouth just disappear. There's no processing the thought as inappropriate or going too far before the words bite their way out of him, ugly and wrong. 

"I'm starting to see where your kid inherited his listening skills from," he says, and watches all the colour drop from Lieberman's face. Lieberman's hand grips the back of the chair like he needs the support, his eyes huge behind his glasses, mouth open, and for just a second he looks so stricken, so _hurt_ , Frank feels a vicious sort of triumph. 

They've never spoken about Micro's kid. It had been the one thing, the unbridgeable pain of it, that they both just instinctively skirted around. Frank didn't dare offer comfort about Louis's death and Linus didn't ask additional information about it, and it had simply become a thing they didn't talk about, a taboo. The subject is a line, and Frank knows better than most that you can't uncross a line. You cross a line and you live with the fallout.

"What the fuck," Lieberman asks, soft and hurt, and something small and mean howls in triumph at that, because if Lieberman can hurt Frank, Frank can and should hurt him back. That's what Frank is good at, that's why Frank's still alive and every enemy he's gone toe to toe with is dead. 

He says nothing, watching Lieberman stall out, watching the anger win out over stunned pain. There's a sort of hideous pride in that, in seeing this man rise up from a hurt ready to fight. That's one of the reasons he loves Lieberman, the way he always comes back swinging. 

He bats the first swung fist aside when Lieberman stalks forward and tries to punch him. Lieberman could be a good brawler if he'd work on his stamina; he's smart and stronger than he looks. When he swings again, Frank grabs him by the forearm, and then Linus slaps him with his other hand.

He slaps hard, the sound of it loud in the under-furnished space, hand lingering hot against Frank's face long after he withdraws it. 

"You don't get to -- we don't _talk_ about him," Linus spits, breathing heavily, face rigid with anger. When Frank opens his mouth to say something back, Lieberman slaps him again, not as hard, not as well controlled, and Frank can feel him shuddering, shivering where he's still holding him by one arm. "We don't talk about that!" Linus shouts, and that's the thing, the tremor in his voice, the well of tears magnified by those glasses, that saps the vicious, gratifying anger out of Frank and clues him in to the idea that he's perhaps gone further than he should have.

When Linus pulls against his grip, Frank lets him go, uncertainty gnawing at him, panic building like a slow fire low in his brain. He hadn't wanted to burn bridges, he hadn't wanted to _fight_ , not like this, not with Linus in tears, not --

"Micro, I --"

"Fuck you, Frank," Linus snarls kicking the chair out of his way, grabbing a few items -- watch, gloves, something he shoves in his pocket -- off the work table, sniffling. It hurts, somehow, just watching him, and Frank feels worse than useless, feels like the monster he's been described as so many times, so capable of breaking with no clue of how to fix anything. "Do the goddamn brakes yourself."

There's a moment where Frank, surely, could stop this. Pull Linus back, apologize, make it right. He could be human about it, for once, he could at least make this ending soft. 

He stands there, useless, and watches Linus leave. A clean break, he imagines, is for the best.


End file.
